


the world seemed to burn

by desdemona (LydiaOfNarnia)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Oikawa Tooru's Knee Injury, Oikawa has a lot of problems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 20:23:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7283386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydiaOfNarnia/pseuds/desdemona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>You’re going to slip, Tooru,</i> Iwaizumi’s eyes say, without his lips so much as twitching. <i>You’re going to fly too high, and you’re going to burn. You’re going to fall.</i></p><p>Iwaizumi hands him another volleyball, and Tooru turns away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the world seemed to burn

**Author's Note:**

> unapologetically titles this with a hamilton quote

The brace around his knee is harsh and unforgiving -- an impersonal reminder of a hospital visit, of the cumulative efforts of many hours of overtraining.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t known he was working too hard. He had known -- of course he had, he may be reckless but he isn’t stupid. Iwaizumi always calls him an idiot, and maybe Iwaizumi is right -- but he never calls him stupid, not when it matters. He’d known from the start that he was overtraining, but the looming shadows behind him only seemed to be growing taller and taller with each pressing day. It was the legacy of Kageyama, the skill of his senpais, the pressing need to improve and get better. His team needs him at his best, so he pushed himself to be better.

And where had it gotten him?

 _A sprain_ , the hospital had said. Mild, but he would need to stay off of it for at least two weeks. Then, maybe, he will be able to ease back into normal training. Maybe things will be able to return to normal in due time.

Maybe.

Tooru doesn’t like indefinites. He doesn’t like not knowing, not being certain, leaving his own destiny up to something he has no way of controlling. He can’t control the way his knee shifts when he lands on it, or the lightning flashes of agony that electrify him whenever he steps on it wrong. None of those things are in his power to fix, and if they last for the rest of his life then that’s what will happen. Nothing he can do besides rest and wait.

 _A minor sprain._ Today, maybe.

Without volleyball, he doesn’t know where else he might be. What more can he do? What else can he do, if the one thing he’s poured all of himself into from the time he was seven years old gets stolen from him? What future does he have if not Oikawa Tooru, volleyball star?

He needs to play.

He’s spent two weeks resting -- two weeks, just like the doctors had told him. They had promised that after the two weeks he would be okay. He could start playing again ( _“resume basic exercises”_ was what his doctor had really said, but to Tooru this pretty much means he can go back to training as usual). Everything will be okay.

He has to play, because he doesn’t know what else he can do.

…

When the gym doors slam open, Tooru almost doesn’t hear them. He’s too fixated on his serve -- sending it exactly where he wants to go. In his mind, the empty gymnasium has become a crowded match, and as he tries to direct his serve into the other side’s most vulnerable points he finds that his pinpoint accuracy has slipped. Not terrible -- not so much that he can’t pull off the serve, can’t score a hypothetical point for his team. But it’s slipped enough that it’s noticeable to him, that the ball leaving his hands feels wrong. He’s spent the last twenty serves correcting it.

The increasingly late hour has been lingering at the back of his mind for a while, but his coach won’t let him play during practice yet. If he wants to keep from slipping any further, he needs to do it on his own time. He doesn’t have to look to know who’s standing in the doorway, hair glistening from the downpour outside and shirt clinging damp to his muscular frame. Iwaizumi always finds him, because he always knows where he is.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Iwaizumi sounds tired; angry, but unsurprised. He’s expected this, then.

“Training, Iwa-chan,” Tooru replies without sparing a glance over his shoulder. Another serve is sent flying through the air, landing just where it should -- but not just where he wants it to. Curling his lips slightly, he marks off the _twenty-one_ in his head and reaches behind him for another ball.

The basket is gone. Finally he turns around; he isn’t surprised to see Iwaizumi wheeling the rest of the volleyballs away. Not surprised, maybe, but he can’t help but be annoyed. Who does Iwaizumi think he is?

“The doctor said I’m fine,” he calls out, jogging after the other boy’s retreating back. “I can train. Irihata-sensei won’t listen --”

“Because you’re wrong, and the coach knows you’re wrong, and so do I.” Shoving the basket against the wall -- maybe a bit too hard, but Iwaizumi always channels his anger into little things to avoid exploding for real -- he rounds on Oikawa, arms crossed over his chest. “You’re a damn idiot, you know that? What are you doing here?”

“Training.” He’s said this before.

“You still need to _heal_ , Oikawa. You have a sprained knee. That’s serious -- do you know how serious that could be, if you don’t let it fix itself the way it’s supposed to?”

Of course he knows. He's the one who had stayed up all night after getting home from the hospital, pouring over booklets and internet articles on sprains and healing and all the variety of different things that could go _wrong_. He knows the horror stories about athletes who pushed themselves too far too fast, and who had their talent snuffed out before their time. That is never going to be _him_.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” Moving forward, Iwaizumi tries to catch Oikawa by the arm, but the other boy jerks back. Something dark flashes through Iwaizumi’s agate green eyes, but Oikawa knows him too well to think it’s dangerous. Anger, maybe, but mostly fear -- fear for _him_. Iwaizumi is so rarely afraid for himself (maybe because Iwaizumi has never been reckless).

“I need to train,” Oikawa says in a softer voice. “I have to, Iwa-chan. I won’t slip behind.”

Iwaizumi looks at him. There are so many emotions in his eyes that it’s impossible to read them all, but Oikawa can tell that he isn’t going to lash out at him. This isn’t like their last year of middle school, emotionally charged outburst, thunderstorms meeting head on to explode in lightning and fire. Oikawa is dead-set, cool and determined, and Iwaizumi knows anger won’t help him.

 _You’re going to slip, Tooru,_ Iwaizumi’s eyes say, without his lips so much as twitching. _You’re going to fly too high, and you’re going to burn. You’re going to fall._

Iwaizumi hands him another volleyball, and Tooru turns away.

He won’t be another story of a tragic young athlete. As he sets up his next jump serve, he grits his teeth and vows it to himself. He’s smarter than that. He’s stronger. He isn’t going to become one of the stories of fallen talent, starts burnt out before their time. Iwaizumi is _wrong_ , his eyes are _wrong_ , and every last person who looks at him like he’s a tragedy waiting to happen is _wrong_.

_He’s okay._

Tooru lines up his serve, sends the ball into the air, draws back -- and he jumps.

There is a moment of perfect harmony. Tooru and the ball, cast into the air, one hand swinging in a powerful arc to meet the ball perfectly and send it across the gym. Except his hand doesn’t connect perfectly; instead of landing dead center in his palm, Tooru’s fingers sting with the impact, and that’s the moment Tooru realizes he’s falling.

He doesn’t land the way he should. He lands too heavily on one leg, his bad leg, and the next thing he knows his knees is buckling. Agony, searing hot and blinding, shoots up the whole of his side. He can’t restrain a tortured wail as he hits the ground, shockwaves shooting through his wrists where he tries to catch himself. He lands hard, and the gym floor has never felt so unforgiving as it does when he is writhing against it. It’s rejecting him where it had always welcomed him before, and through the haze of pain and torture Tooru suddenly realizes that he is not welcome here. The gym itself is _rejecting_ him, and he’s never before felt so much like something vital has been torn away from him.

**_“Oikawa!”_ **

He hears Iwaizumi’s shout, and there is a split second of relief -- he isn’t alone. Hands on his shoulders, hands on his face, coarse and rough in the same way most of Hajime is. He hears to boy mutter a swear over him, desperately searching for something to do, and he can feel regret radiating from the other boy in waves. He never should have given him that ball -- except Tooru would not have stood down until he had. It isn’t Iwaizumi’s fault.

“What -- what can I --” There’s something strangled in his voice. This probably isn’t made better by the way Tooru twines his arms around his neck, tight, but Tooru can’t bring himself to care.

He doesn’t want to be alone right now. Where everything else is rejecting him, Iwaizumi isn’t, and for a moment all he wants is to be held.

…

Another doctor’s visit later (with strict orders to stay off the knee for another _week, dammit)_ , the night is quiet.

“You’ll be okay, you know,” Iwaizumi breathes in his ear. He’s close; Iwa-chan is so, so close, but Tooru needs it tonight and they both know that. From where his back is pressed up against the other boy’s broad chest, Tooru hums softly, and tries to memorize the feeling of Iwaizumi’s arms wrapped around him.

“I mean it.” The feeling of hot breath against Tooru’s cheek immediately gets his attention. “I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you. I just… dammit, Tooru, I need you to work with me. _Help me._ ”

Those words coming from Iwa-chan’s lips sound wrong.

“Help me keep you safe.”

Tooru squeezes his eyes shut, curls up closer against Iwaizumi’s body, and remembers to breathe. “Okay,” he says, his voice as soft as the light breeze fluttering his curtains from his open window. _I’m sorry, Iwa-chan._ “Okay.”


End file.
